


Things We Do in the Daylight

by chewysugar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexuality, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Harry Has Issues, Implied Sexual Content, Love, M/M, Mild Language, Morning After, Multi, Nudity, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, The Golden Trio, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 01:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13964817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: What is an angsty war hero to do when he wakes up the morning after a night with his two best friends?In Harry's case, get over it.





	Things We Do in the Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to be a lot more delicate and suggestive with my smut lately. I think I've gotten bored of porn. It's really quite a turnabout for me.

It's the damn cat's fault.

Crookshanks ruins Harry’s attempt to sneak quietly passed the kitchen. The cat has decided to sleep right in the middle of the hallway, and Harry has the misfortune of stepping on his tail. One loud “fuck” and a screeching cat later and Harry knows he’s been found out.

The metal chink of a teaspoon against ceramic stops Harry as he’s in the middle of hopping up and down on the foot that Crookshanks slashed.

“Harry?”

Hermione is awake, because of course she’s awake at an hour so ungodly.

He could still hurry on his bleeding foot down the hallway. But that would be something a guilty party would do; it’s only Hermione. Only Hermione, whom he felt and tasted mere hours before.

Harry tries to walk into the kitchen of his and Ron’s new flat as casually as possible. He does pay rent on the place, after all; no reason to feel like an intruder in his own home.

But when he sees Hermione, sitting at the breakfast table nursing a cup coffee, he wants to apparate to the next postal code. Not because the memories of her skin against his and her fingers twisting in his hair are rushing back.

Well, maybe partially for that reason. Mostly it’s because Hermione is sitting on her chair with only a button up shirt that’s about a size too-large for her covering her to her knees. It’s one of Ron’s shirts, checkered in white and dark blue. Against Hermione’s brown skin, it looks as luminous as moonlight.

Harry’s only dressed in his flannel pajama bottoms. Why he couldn't have actually gotten dressed and just snuck out of the blasted place is beyond him. But here he is, and there he has it.

 _It’s only Hermione_ , he tells himself as he crosses the threshold. _It’s only Hermione_ …

Her expression is languid, like a cigarette smoke spiral after a passionate night…which, really, isn’t far off the mark at all.

“There’s coffee.” She nods at the counter where a fresh pot is brewing. It’s as if her focus is entirely elsewhere. Based on her lazy smile, and the carelessness of her posture, her thoughts are probably down the hall and about six hours beforehand.

Ignoring the pain in his foot, Harry moves for a cup of restorative caffeine. He feels Hermione’s eyes on him, roving up and down his body from head to heel. It’s unnerving, and yet, he can’t suppress the heat that churns in his gut.

Last night had been unexpected. Looking back, Harry feels as if it was only the natural progression. They’ve been wound up since the end of the not-so-long-ago War. Nights and days spent rebuilding and trying to fill in missing pieces have left them on edge, pent up with agitating energy and nowhere else to put it. Even though they’re recovering, there was still the odd vivid flashback, and the desperate need for each other, in absence of which there was vice: drink, recklessness and sex.

At least with sex, there was reassurance. In skin and lips they heartened all their hopes and sent doubt down the drain.

It’s only that they’re best friends, though.

Harry pours his coffee, and then turns around. Hermione smirks; her hair is a bedheaded disaster, but somehow oh so inviting and suggestive. That she, a stickler for rules as she reads them, is so fluid and relaxed in the aftermath of last night is a beautiful madness.

“Sleep alright?” The shirt is just barely covering her modesty, and it's driving Harry to distraction.

Harry nods, grunts in response, and then takes a sip of coffee for something to do. Hermione lets out a laugh that sounds like a contented cat’s purr. Those damn clever eyes that work logic the way some people work with paints rake Harry from head to groin once again.

Thoroughly discomfited, Harry retreats for the safety of the window, but he’s not fast enough.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s alright. Just Crookshanks, earlier.”

Hermione narrows her eyes. Harry’s known her so long and knows her so well that he instantly feels even more exposed than he was before. This is Hermione’s “no bullshit” gaze. There isn’t a man, beast nor magical creature alive that can escape it.

“Harry.”

And there’s the warning; the “I am the cleverest witch of my age so don’t even start with me” warning.

“It’s fine.” And there is Harry's "I must hide that hurricane within so as to save face," tone.

Harry makes it to the window, feeling heat stain his cheeks.

A second later soft footsteps pad into the kitchen; Harry contemplates how far and fast he’d have to jump to achieve killing himself on the street below. But he hesitates too long, and a second later, a third presence fills the kitchenette.

Ron yawns like a lion just entering his domain after a successful bout of mating and hunting. It’s loud, insistent on its own tiredness; and yet, it makes Harry think of days spent lounging in a dusty common room; of late nights talking in his room The Burrow.

And of last night when he let Ron feel and explore places on his body that had only ever been known to him.

Harry blushes so hard as Ron enters the kitchen that he’s surprised he doesn’t bleed from the nose. He hears the soft peck of Ron’s lips against Hermione’s. Then the weight of a second stare makes the back of his neck prickle.

What’s going to happen now? How can he possibly face the both of them? Even if last night was the best kind of wonderful he’s ever known—even if the security of Ron’s arms and the hardness of his body was exactly the strength Harry needed—even if the softness and tight heat of Hermione’s body was the best kind of embrace he’d ever felt—they’re his best friends. How does one maintain that kind of bond after stepping over such a serious line?

They’ll probably hate him. He instigated this, after all. At least he thinks he did. Of course he did. He’s only good for being the wake of Death—the great ruiner of things. They’ll never speak to him after this, especially Ron, and—

Ron crosses the floor in three great strides—damn those bloody giraffe’s legs of his. But his presence isn’t threatening at all. He closes into Harry’s personal space with the ease of—well, of a lover. One strong, solid arm slides around Harry’s waist. A moment later he’s pulled flush against a bare, warm body.

Thought, seeing it’s opportunity, takes the route out the window Harry had been contemplating earlier.

The smell of Ron’s skin mingles with the fragrant coffee. Together, they create an all new aroma that is the closest to home Harry’s felt since Hogwarts. Ron is here, pressed against him. Ron is here, kissing him softly on the side of the face, not pressing him forwards or demanding a retread; but just here.

Harry looks up at that face that he’s seen so many times; that face that is like the sound of his own name. Sure, there are scars and memories of war, but those only signify Ron’s bravery, and Hermione’s too for her—their bravery, and the fact that after all was said and done, they went through it with him.

They’re both here after war; why the fuck would they disappear following love?

Harry doesn’t care that Ron didn’t bother to dress. They’re all exposed in some form now, but what does that compare to the night before? When he was tangled up in Hermione and letting Ron get likewise lost in him?

Ron slides the coffee cup from Harry’s limp fingers; he takes a long pull, his whole frame relaxing.

“Mmm. Sugar and cream.” Ron grins. At the dazed, stupid smile on Harry’s face, he pecks him quickly on the lips. “All right, mate?”

“Yeah. Brilliant.” Because really, what else could he be with these two?

Ron turns. He’s going to leave—to dress or shower, or even wait for them back in that messed up, stained bed, Harry isn’t sure. An imp seizes his mind by the reins. Just as Ron steps away, Harry swats him on his tempting, bare backside.

Ron jumps; Hermione looks on with renewed interest from over the top of her coffee mug.

Turning his head a fraction of an inch around, Ron meets Harry’s eyes. Harry only smiles, an innocent saint of virtue masking the joyous sinner beneath.

For a moment they're silent and still. Then something breaks the way it did last night, and all three nearly topple over each other in their haste to leave the kitchen and disappear back to that blanket sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
